


Rain Check

by freightcarbarnes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America: The First Avenger - Fandom, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, catfa - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Violence, sad endings, ultra angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 22:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8227552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freightcarbarnes/pseuds/freightcarbarnes
Summary: Two old comrades meet under the worst possible circumstances.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A fic inspired by mine and yourbucky221B's Halloween costumes. Prepare for angst!

The first two levels of the grim HYDRA base had been largely derelict, save for a handful of lowly, and easily-dispatched soldiers. The red-on-black uniforms made their intentions clear even before they hissed their mantra through taut lips, weapons raising to fire at the scarlet-lipped agent hastily mowing through their ranks. 

Patent leather heels clipped along hallways and through corridors, momentarily halting at the sound of loaded weapons or thickly accented chattering. Agent Peggy Carter had demanded entering the facility alone — something heavily protested by both Howard Stark, who’d equipped her to the teeth with gadgets, and Special Agent Daniel Sousa, who’d been unceremoniously locked out of the facility approximately three minutes after arriving. Neither man were remotely comfortable with Miss Carter entering the base alone — but neither were foolish enough to argue with her, either. 

“There’s barely a thing in here, Daniel,” Peggy snipped into the receiver placed between the buttons of her blouse, “No, no — I’ll be fifteen minutes.” 

Within fifteen minutes, the brunette would retrieve the paperwork supposedly housed in the bottom-most floor of the building, make a hasty retreat, and emerge perfectly timed for their 7 o’ clock dinner and dance. Easy. 

The third floor proved a little more eventful — tripwires, armed guards, alarms — nothing impossible for Peggy Carter. A well placed mirror, the correct re-wiring, a touch of Howard’s ‘perfume’ blend, and Miss Carter was pressing hands softly against the door of the fourth, and bottom-most, floor of the building, leaving a swarm of unconscious men in her wake. Signs in German marking ‘Warning’ and ‘Top Level Personnel ONLY’ did little to dissuade the headstrong fatale, and she pressed on, eager to retrieve the files in question. 

By the entrance to the fourth floor, the receiver betwixt her blouse buttons hummed with static, her distance proving too far to make contact with the paired device in Sousa’s damp palm. 

“Typical.” Dismissively, Peggy raised a delicate finger and thumb to click the device off, before edging around the nearest corner. No more than fifteen steps from the door she had entered, her chocolate heels came to an abrupt halt.

There was no chatter nearby, no boots against concrete… But ungodly, blood-curdling **_screams_**. Heavy with despair and shaking with agony, the sounds rang out along the hallways, a haunting echo following in their wake. Once, twice, three times, screams that grew rougher with every wave, bursting from a raw throat, an exhausted body.

Inwardly, Carter cursed Stark for his lacking technology.

With her heart beating a touch faster than she’d care to admit, Peggy took tentative steps towards the source of the cries. Ducking behind a storeroom door, she avoided a rush of footsteps, guards moving to another post. Pressing herself flat beneath a table, she watched as shiny, black shoes and the tails of white coats moved away at haste. Despite her sufficient language skills, she could not directly translate the frantic shouts of the HYDRA personnel that rushed by her — however, it was abundantly evident that they were fleeing the source of the screaming. 

Tentatively sliding one foot in from of the other, pistol raised, Carter moved cautiously along the final hallway. A grey-slabbed corridor lit only by flickering bulbs, it was an ominous gateway to a pair of large, heavy, windowless doors. Approaching them, she extended a hand, fingertips spreading against the cold metal of the doors — they were unlike any throughout the rest of the building, and were perhaps a little excessive for a simple storage room — between that realisation, and those deafening screams, the Agent took a deep breath before forcing them open.

_Burning flesh. It always smelled like burning flesh. No matter how many times they’d forced him into the chair, the Asset never assimilated to the scent. Likewise, the ashy, burnt taste that coated the back of his mouth never ceased to make him wretch, stomach acid bubbling and burning his throat, just like the chair burned the memories from his head. The pain was unbearable — white hot, it felt as though every part of him was exploding with an inextinguishable blaze, pressure bearing down on his eyes and teeth like they might erupt at any moment. His sweat soaked body stuck to the cold metal chair, and the skin on his temples fizzed and bubbled, criss crossed burns overlaying one another with every session, and every time, the oppressive blackness that settled over him afterwards — blank, empty, a clean slate._

_Russia, Poland, Germany — it didn’t matter where he woke up, the words were all the same;_

_“Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century. And I need you to do it one more time…”_

_A new mission, a new objective, new faces — but weren’t they always? The Winter Soldier knew Arnim Zola by his glasses, by the round curve of his face, by the squeeze of his sausage-like fingers. His name didn’t always remain, but the stale scent of his breath told him he was in charge, he was the Asset’s creator, he owed him everything, and it was his duty to serve him. Small things, the only things the Soldier could hold onto._

Lips parting as her crimson mouth dropped aghast, Agent Carter’s gaze raked across the scene before her, the source of the screaming from minutes previous — a muscular man, hair long and damp around his shoulders, metal apparatus towering around him, heaving in almighty breaths, slumped within a mechanical chair. Restraints around the individuals wrists whirred and clicked as they loosened, and it was only then, with restraints retracting, that Peggy noticed the most bizarre aspect of all — his left arm was coated entirely in silver chrome. Plates began to slide and hum as they repositioned, and with a lingering stare, an alarming realisation occurred — that WAS his arm. Scarring cobwebbed outwards from the join around his shoulder, silver plates disappearing into ragged flesh, it moved with his breathing — it was simultaneously mechanical **and** alive… Oh, how she wished Howard were there to witness it.

Cautiously, weapon still readied, Carter approached, “Excuse me, Sir— I’m Agent Peggy Carter, of the SS—“

_As fog and pain cleared, the Soldier was acutely aware of the mahogany eyes set on him from across the room. The woman was not immediately familiar, nor did she bear the black and red logo of his owners. Instead, she was well dressed, clutching a .38 Walther PPK, patent heels clicking against the concrete floor, lips parted in what the Asset perceived as shock. If she were a test, as most things were, she was decidedly inoffensive — her finger was not squeezing at the trigger, and she was not attempting to rouse any emotional response from the Soldier, her footsteps were slow and apprehensive._

_Attack. Incapacitate. Kill._  

Restraints finally unclasped, the Winter Soldier lunged towards the coiffed agent, metal arm swinging and narrowly missing the brunettes jaw. With a sharp inhale of breath, Peggy skittered backwards, uttering a frantic, “Bloody hell—!” before ducking and lunging from the man’s path. Once again cursing Howard Stark and his lacklustre communications device, Carter stepped once, twice, span on her heels and aimed her pistol at the rabid Soldier, barking an order as he righted himself to attack again, “Stand _down_ , Sir — I’m an Agent of the SSR, and I’m here to—“ 

_The Soldier saw scarlet lips move, but the words weren’t loud enough to defeat the static buzzing in his ears. The chair always left him that way, but he could never distinguish whether the sounds were a side effect of the machine, or an internal failing of his own mind. Snarling with frustration and abject determination, the Asset took several strides towards the woman, metal hand delivering a hard blow to her ribs._

Air thieved from her lungs, Peggy bent at the waist, gasping, empty hand jerking to grip at the source of the pain. Two ribs, she estimated, damaged heavily from a blow that hard, non-fatal, but enough to slow her considerably. Taking a stumbling step backwards, she raised her pistol with some difficulty, manicured finger squeezing as she delivered a warning shot to the enemy’s thigh — a graze, enough to cause some substantial bleeding and if she was lucky, slow the man in his efforts.

_The Winter Soldier did not respond to physical pain. He’d been taught as such, through torture, endless experimentation and relentless conditioning. Pain was weakness, and the Soldier was_ **_never_ ** _to be perceived as weak. Physical injury was to be repurposed as strength, anger, violence, the Asset was to work until he could stand no longer. The Asset was only to withdraw from an altercation when death was imminent — self-preservation was of the utmost importance. If the Soldier could not survive a confrontation, if he were not able to self-treat his wounds, he was to return to the nearest HYDRA facility for decommissioning._  

_Gritting his teeth, a rough grunt barely making it from his raw throat, the Weapon planted his injured leg on the concrete, flesh hand clasping at the spilling wound. Squeezing in a brief attempt to stem the bleeding, he took a breath, two, three, until the initial pain subsided enough for him to continue — it burned, bullet through flesh, but it was minor in regards to the limits he was often pushed to — even from the chair alone._

_Taking three steps to close the space between them, the Asset slipped the knife from his belt, bloody flesh hand spinning the dagger into his metal hand. It was a fast motion, easy enough to miss considering his assailants current concentration on breathing — a deliberate move to distract, on his part. Every choice the Soldier made was precisely that — cold, calculating, deadly._  

With little more than a moment to consider her next move, the animalistic man was bearing down on her again, leaving bloody footprints in his wake. The shot had _barely_ slowed him down, and it was with an alarmed concern that she’d noticed the Soldier’s response was near-silent. Bizarre, she thought, another characteristic to relay to Howard.

With the intention to avoid, Peggy ducked and lunged as the man approached, only to be caught with a heavy blow to the face. It was, at least, a strike from his flesh fist, slippery with blood from his injured thigh, and lacking the power and accuracy of the metal hand she’d been caught with earlier. Surely, it would leave a bruise, but little more — She could almost hear Daniel’s concerned tone emanating from the walls already. 

With a quick movement, Peggy struck the man once, twice, managing to land blows across his head, and cheek respectively. They did little to dissuade his onslaught, and with a burning sensation, Agent Carter’s attention was drawn immediately to her right side — eyes flickering downwards, just in time to catch the retreat of a blade, blood already blooming through her white blouse.

Gasping, knee raising instinctively to deliver a powerful blow to the Asset’s lower stomach, followed by another heavy fist aimed across his jaw, Peggy pulled herself away from her attacker as his forearm raised to block the facial blow. Empty hand immediately finding the hot, wet patch on her waist, the Agent raised her pistol and without hesitation, fired two shots at the bedraggled stranger. One, firing directly into his right shoulder, the other lodging firmly into his previously-damaged thigh, her lips parted to deliver an unwavering threat. 

“I’m allowing you a final warning, Sir. I am Agent Peggy Carter, of the SSR. Back down, or I will be forced to dispatch you myself.”

_Her talking seemed endless and distant, like words shouted from the end of a tunnel. Cold eyes fixated on scarlet lips, perfect skin, the yellowing bruise already growing around her eye socket. The blood spilling onto her blouse matched his own dripping the length of his leg, pooling in his boot and leaking across the concrete — concrete already stained with his blood, the blood of others. Men, women, and children bought to him, tests, just like this one — An examination of his resolve, his ability to kill unflinchingly, without remorse. He always passed._

_It was only after fortnight-long missions away from facilities, travelling unseen between shadows, that he’d start to feel for what he’d done. Curled in doorways of abandoned streets, the Asset would remember witnessing the life whisper from a child’s throat as he crushed it within an iron grip. Eyes wide in the darkness, the Soldier would hear the endless echo of parents screams, and the sickening gurgle as he drove blade into windpipe. It was then, shoulders hunched tight against the biting cold, that the Weapon would begin to drown beneath remorse, and tragically, yearn for the amnesia of the chair._

_Body flinching as it took both shots, the Weapon allowed a ragged yelp to sneak from his lips. Head dipped as he gritted his teeth yet again, bullets blazing trails into his muscle, he knew it was time to finish the battle. The woman before him need only deliver a handful of shots to prove fatal, and it’s with an icy determination, that his gaze rose again to meet hers. Taking heavy steps that illicited pained grunts from his lips, the Winter Soldier forced his pace to increase. Moving as quickly as bulleted leg would allow him, and taking another two agonising shots to the stomach and shoulder, he pushed the majority of his bodyweight into the slender woman, forcing her against the furthermost wall. With a satisfying thump, her head made contact with the bricked wall, and the Soldier’s metal hand grabbed fiercely at her throat._

Fifteen minutes.

Within fifteen minutes, the brunette would retrieve the paperwork supposedly housed in the bottom-most floor of the building, make a hasty retreat, and emerge perfectly timed for their 7 o’ clock dinner and dance. Easy.

She was already five minutes late, and her last two shots did little to slow the grunting animal pacing towards her.

More oxygen forced from her body, Peggy’s head swam as hulking shoulders pressed her back against the brickwork. One hand clawed at the sweat-soaked and bloody skin of the man’s shoulder, nails digging hard enough to draw blood and ruck flesh. Her lips opened to deliver scathing remarks and snappy threats, but between the stab wound in her side, and the pressure bearing down on her chest and back, little escaped. Undoubtedly, her mind wondered to Daniel, as metal fingers closed around her throat, her own digits raising to pry at the cold metal pressed against her windpipe.

_Her throat was slender, soft, and buckled favourably beneath the Asset’s grip. This close, he could smell the floral perfume, and the spray setting her hair. As his fingers squeezed tighter, ice blue eyes raked over her sharp features, the deep brown of her eyes, the steadfast determination across her expression despite her situation, the cut curve of her jaw._  

He smelled like burning flesh and toxic ash. His hair was greased with filth, and hung long and unkempt around his face, jaw grizzled up to his cheeks with days old stubble. He was utterly abandoned, no care taken in his appearance, almost as though he were entirely unaware of it… But blue eyes cut through. Cold, cloudy, distant — but not altogether _unfamiliar_.

With black spots beginning to obscure her vision, Peggy used the remainder of her strength to intentionally slyly raise her weapon, cautiously moving to avoid detection, although the assailant had his eyes firmly on her. He appeared almost alarmingly focused, his expression changing ever so partially with the passing moments. 

_The pressure increase was incremental. The Asset was trained to pinpoint perfection for any given situation, be it a quick and easy dispatch, or a torturous, agonising process designed to extend a demise. Unfortunately, the steadfast focus on his torment of Ms Carter, and the fervour with which he observed her facial features, had caused the Soldier to disregard the weapon raised to press first beneath his chin, before it moved to the space between his eyes._

Edges of her vision blackened, and sucking in minimal, rasping breaths, Agent Carter pressed the cold barrel of her Walther between the Asset’s eyes. As she felt the final surge of pressure close off her windpipe, and using the last of her conscious ability, Carter squeezed the trigger, delivering a bullet directly into the Soldier’s frontal lobe.

_Hot flame seared through his forehead, rending flesh from muscle from brain, setting nerves and synapses alight. Whether it was the bullet trauma to his frontal lobe, or the trigger of her perfume, the shooters name rung out in every corner of his memory. Peggy. Peggy Carter. A woman from a life left behind, a life erased by his captors, a life scorched from his memory by crude machinery and violent conditioning. A friend, a comrade, a link to his past. A friend who’s throat lay mangled beneath his grip._

In a matter of seconds that seemed to stretch for decades, the Weapon’s eyes opened wide, pupils constricting to pinpoints, mouth falling open to release a half-formed, “Peg—?" 

Only then, with his eyes opened wide as saucers, the familiar nickname rolling off his tongue, with her final, ragged half-breaths escaping rapidly from her ruined trachea, Peggy see’s the identity of the soldier she’s executed — James Barnes. A friend, a comrade, a man whom supposedly gave his life for the Howling Commandos, a man who’d died behind the line of fire just several years prior. Here, square jaw shaded by waves of hair and thick stubble, pale and exhausted and utterly, deeply _destroyed_ , whatever remnants of Barnes remained had been obscured — until the final, tragic moments, when Peggy’s bullet extinguished whatever was left of him. 

Both bodies clattered to the ground, Barnes’ grip loosened and dropped as his body hit the concrete with a heavy thunk. Carter’s followed moments after, hazy consciousness slowly fading as glassy eyes fixated on the fallen man beside her. With tears streaking down her soft cheeks, Peggy’s eyes settled for their final time on the small golden wristwatch adorning her arm, outstretched in her slack fall to the ground.

With voice barely above a painful whisper, Peggy breathed her last moments, the corner of her lips tilting into a bittersweet smile.

 

“Sorry, Daniel. I’m going to need a rain check on that dance.”


End file.
